


tragic comedy

by entremelement



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Amusement Parks, Comedy, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Pre-MSBY v. Adlers, Roller Coasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25280155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement/pseuds/entremelement
Summary: “MEIAN-SAN, ATSUMU’S SCARED OF ROLLER COASTERS!” Hinata proudly proclaims, with Atsumu visibly cringing at the mere mention of roller coasters. “I dragged him to the Titanium Dragon 3000!”Meian cocks his head to the side and stifles a chuckle, eyeing the unusually bashful Atsumu right behind Hinata. “Oh, and how did that go, Atsumu?”“Splendidly.” Atsumu lies through his teeth, huffing out a short breath before shuddering.or, you know, that one fic where they all end up in an amusement park in Yokohama before the big Schweiden Adlers game.
Relationships: Bokuto Koutarou & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, Inunaki Shion/Adriah Thomas
Comments: 18
Kudos: 72
Collections: MSBY Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChiaRoseKuro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiaRoseKuro/gifts).



> EDIT (July 26, 2020): Ditzy ol’ me forgot to write a note. This is for ChiaRoseKuro. Your prompts were so, so incredible and I had quite the difficult time choosing among them. (For a moment, too, I’d considered fulfilling two of your prompts for this exchange, but I eventually settled with the first prompt you gave me.)
> 
> The prompt in question: at least two of the MSBY characters get separated from their team on a trip (to a zoo, the movies, etc.) and decide to use their down time to hang out on their own. 
> 
> Amusement park, then. I also included the rest of the MSBY Black Jackals, to see how they’d fare in the unfortunate circumstance of being separated in pairs. 
> 
> Pairs: **AtsuHina** , **ThomaShion**  
>  Platonic pair: **Bokuto** & **Sakusa**  
>  Tired Captain: The one and only **Meian Shugo**
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3

“Mortal fate is hard. You’d best get used to it.”

_Medea (Euripides)_

Things weren’t supposed to pan out like this.

Atsumu shakes in his sneakers as Hinata happily leads him across the huge plaza, pretty unbothered. Ecstatic, even. 

So Atsumu is painfully aware of how Hinata had built his own muscles abroad, coming home expectedly tanned from Brazil. How he came home bearing a newfound strength, worlds different from when Atsumu last saw him. He expected this, he knew, and yet as soon as he found Hinata in the home court locker room, clad in a simple wrinkly shirt and old volleyball shorts, legs toned and shoulders wide enough to rival his own, his years-old promise of setting to Hinata seemed to hold greater weight now. 

“Come on, ‘Tsumu, while the line’s still short! I’ve been eyeing this ride as soon as we got here!”

A brief and sudden record scratch moment: Atsumu was supposed to go along with whatever Hinata wanted; it was, after all, their first _date_ together. Except it wasn’t. It sure as hell wasn’t.

They came as a team—the MSBY boys, they called themselves unironically, much to Sakusa’s chagrin—to an amusement park. A slew of objections occurred until they all found themselves on a bus out to Yokohama. 

And scene: Sakusa a bit more incensed than usual, grumbling in his seat the whole time. Bokuto sinking in his seat at 0%, as opposed to his usual 120% mode. Meian leafing through the amusement park pamphlet. Inunaki besting Bokuto at drowsiness as he’s sprawled on two seats. Hinata chattering on, releasing some of the bottled-up excitement beside Atsumu. Atsumu staring out the window, nodding. Thomas cutting with a _Hinata you ought to save your energy for when we arrive_. Barnes laughing at Hinata’s sheer energy.

Not long after they reached the park, the afternoon parade rolls down a wide brick-laden path, in the heat of humid Yokohama.

It just so happens that these boys are conveniently standing in the middle of its path, with Meian still making out the symbols on the park map. When the parade divides the whole team apart right at the middle, Atsumu barely makes out Bokuto’s “meet up at—“ through the dancing mascots, the cymbals, the _people._

As far as Atsumu’s concerned, he _wanted_ to be alone _with_ Hinata. 

The fact of separation among the MSBY team members actually served him well. _Too_ well, in fact. Murphy’s Law, however, aptly reminds us of our foolhardiness—situations _can_ go awry at any second. 

Atsumu, being the obvious knucklehead that he was, failing to realize the gravity of the situation, took the chance that the universe gave him and ran with it. 

It seems like he ran a bit too far. Atsumu finds himself being pulled by his personal irresistible force towards the only metal death trap in the amusement park: the Titanium Dragon 3000. Wasn’t this just 2000 last year? Atsumu swallows his own spit, finding his mouth inexplicably dry, his teeth clattering as he contains the shiver going up and down his spine, making a xylophone out of his vertebrae. 

Atsumu is suddenly hyper-aware of all the muscles in his body and how they collectively tense up at the mere mention of “rollercoaster.” Make no mistake—his secret infatuation with Hinata could simultaneously make him the dumbest and the most romantic bloke in love. Roller coasters, however, are a whole new species of insufferable for a mere mortal such as Miya Atsumu. 

“Come on, ‘Tsumu! Huh?” It took Hinata 5 minutes before he noticed that he was no longer speaking to someone. When Hinata rotates his body enough to search for Atsumu, the latter was already actively dragging himself across the brick-lined pathway, soul visibly leaving his corporeal body. 

Hinata, also a close second to the most oblivious bloke in the world (read: still Atsumu), ran to Atsumu. Atsumu, the mere mortal, only wants liberation. Hinata scowls, seemingly oblivious to Atsumu’s terrors. “Ugh, what a slowpoke.”

Atsumu could die. No, really. There are no words that could fully encapsulate the simultaneous feeling of butterflies in his stomach and the crushing weight of dread over his heart. 

“Shoyo, wait—“ They’ve been running faster than the usual lackluster jogs they have in the gym, more than he’s used to with Hinata. Atsumu trips on an elevated brick in his attempt to keep up with Hinata’s bursts of energy. 

It doesn’t escape Atsumu that Hinata frequently jumps on a lot of opportunities in his spontaneity. This is just one of them. If he has to learn how to live with one Hinata Shoyo, then this is a start. 

Atsumu realizes that he may have stumbled upon a personification of a wildly adventurous bucket list. He usually doesn’t mind—especially when Hinata cooperates with Bokuto’s usual antics. 

Usually. 

This is one of the instances that he actually _does._ If Atsumu doesn’t speak immediately, his soul will fully dissipate any minute now.

“Shoyo, you’re just—“ Atsumu almost trips on the grooves on the floor, a mild signal that they’ve just entered a new area of the park. “Calm down, Shoyo, yer try’na get me to trip here!” 

“But if we don’t reach the line in time, it’s a 45-minute wait, on top of the initial 30-minute one! And ‘sides, not like you had any ideas earlier!” Hinata retorts as he pouts and huffs at Atsumu, both of them now out of breath. 

Well, dang, Hinata’s right—when asked about where they should go, Atsumu’s mind only has vague iterations of ‘ _your place or mine?’_ He chose to remain silent, lest he gets socked in the eye. Picture it: Bokuto keeling over in fatal laughter, Sakusa doing the bare minimum and exhaling a quick ‘heh’ as he side-eyes Atsumu, the rest of the MSBY boys giving him scrutinizing looks. For being punched in the eye by someone he made a move on. Classic.

All in a day’s daydream for Atsumu: a closed fist meets an open eye.

However, his decision to shut up is not well-taken by the universe, it seems. A rock and a hard place, last time Atsumu flipped through his tiny book of idioms, didn’t mean rollercoasters or his dignity. Might as well burn the book.

Atsumu, despite the pressing situation, takes great comfort in weaving Hinata’s fingers into his. It’s warm and inviting; strange, considering that he’s much of a burlap sack being dragged around, losing all sense of humanity within him, completely attributable to the mere thought of a roller coaster. 

Quite in a rush, Atsumu notes, as the hand clenches and tightens its grip when Hinata beelines for the queue. 

When Atsumu feels his knees expectedly buckle, he realizes that it’s because they’re already at the Titanium Dragon 3000 facade. Beads of sweat gather on his forehead, nape, hamstrings, and other uncomfortable areas. 

As Hinata’s unable to tear his eyes off of the grand facade appended with a mechanical dragon mascot, Atsumu kept his eyes glued onto the tangerine boy. The dragon moves its arms in a 2-second interval, making wailing, screeching noises: a lack of lubrication. Not much could be done by Atsumu, so he heaves out an exasperated sigh as Hinata pulls him in.

On the platform, Atsumu’s limbs tremble so much he could very well be a human epicenter. He has never been so aware of how his own sweat stuck to his clothes until Hinata led him into the shiny red seats. He watches Hinata reach for the metal bar overhead and pull it to their chests, leaving about a person’s worth of space in front of them. 

Atsumu digs his heels against the metal footrest. What good is a safety measure when it’s just a metal bar that keeps him from being flung off into space? No seatbelts that make a click, only a metal bar that locks them in place. Only a flimsy bar to hang onto, only that to give Atsumu a false sense of security, he thinks. 

“Not fun if we have accidents!” Hinata remarks--no, warns, jittery with ecstatic energy in his seat. Atsumu could only snap his head towards his companion’s direction; that statement did more harm than good as he kept in mind all the ways he could be flung off the death machine. In true hyperbolic fashion, he yells, horrified, before the ride even begins to budge.

“Calm the fuck down, will you?!” Hinata snaps, sliding one hand on the bar closer to his. The ride commences and the quick hiss of the machine startles Atsumu. “Grab onto me, then, if you’re such a wuss.” The ride is snail-like in its initial movement, and in that moment, Atsumu finds himself once again pushing his soles against the footrest with so much force.

There is a pang when Hinata refers to him as wuss; meanwhile, there is also delight upon the opportunity presented to him by the universe, that is, until the ride dips down a huge slope.

It’s ungainly when Atsumu yells out a string of _OH GOOD LORD HERE IT COMES OH GOD, OH NO_ s. Without much pondering, he grabs onto Hinata, the nearest object in sight, and takes him in his arms as they plunge down further into oblivion. He pays no attention to how loud his voice was when he screeched against Hinata’s shoulder, or how Hinata could have just as easily punched the living daylights out of him when he was seized. 

The only pressing thought that occurs to him is that he has to survive to see himself in the national team, or hold his first-born, whatever. He _has_ to survive.

In the midst of being overly melodramatic, Atsumu fails to see how adrenaline and his fight or flight instincts could help him in this situation. When the ride bears to the right, he feels himself slide in that direction, taking Hinata with him. As the roller coaster tilts to the left, wind rushing in his face, Atsumu squishes Hinata in his seat. 

See, Atsumu knows how incorrigible and _stupidly in love_ he can get with this crush, or whatever it is. It bears stressing that when it’s possible to cater to Hinata in any way he could, best believe that he _would_. In a heartbeat, Atsumu knows he could give up everything—even the deed to Onigiri Miya—to Hinata, if he was asked to.

No way in hell, however, would he, for a second, surrender his absolute terror of roller coasters to Hinata Shoyo. He can pretend to do so, but he’s not fooling anyone.

Coming back up to the platform, it dawns on Atsumu that he had his vice grip on too tight. Hinata looks slightly cartoonish at this point. Wind-tousled hair, wrinkly clothes, a vacant stare. Maybe Atsumu was a bit too much to handle. The machine halts and a uniform voiceover is played.

Hinata, elated, yells over the robotic voiceover. “That.. was.. better than I imagined it to be, ‘Tsumu!”

Atsumu pushes the bar upwards with all his might. His effort to do so has proven to be insufficient when the staff lifts the bar up for them. He practically crawls out of the roller coaster car and gasps for air on the platform, legs shaking. 

As soon as the two were able to stay five feet away from the dreaded facade, Hinata took it upon himself to purchase two churros from the nearby snack stall. Atsumu, meanwhile, grovels to find an empty bench to sit on and recollect himself. 

When he sits on the green metal bench, toasty from the heat of the sun, he spots Hinata from under the pink striped awning, approaching him with a smirk.

Hinata forks the snack over to a weakened Atsumu, and he takes the snack gingerly in his hands as opposed to a usual quick grab. “Huh,” Hinata says when he plops himself next to Atsumu. “You really _are_ scared of roller coasters. I guess Osamu’s right.”

He _what._ What did his idiot brother do this time? 

Atsumu opens his mouth to speak, but the cat—let’s call it Titanium Dragon 3000–already got his tongue. 

Despite Atsumu’s silence, Hinata shies away and turns his head as a blush creeps on his cheeks. He decides to chomp down on his chocolate churro, away from Atsumu’s sight. Growing curious, Atsumu cocks his head and peers at Hinata, who’s smoothing his shirt with a hand and holding the almost-finished churro with the other. 

“Shoyo, did’ya plan this?” Atsumu’s voice was low, devoid of any emotion. How the tables have turned, and now it’s Hinata who feels prickling all over the skin on his back. The sound of crinkling paper in Hinata’s hands tells him a ton. 

It takes Hinata a split second to chomp down on what remains of his food. There is no struggle when he faces Atsumu, a smile now blooming on his lips. 

This isn’t exactly fair; as Hinata happily devours a snack, Atsumu’s limp churro sits unconsumed in his hand. He fears digestion would be far too menacing a task for his stomach after that ordeal. 

More to the point, it being his feeling of future indigestion: Osamu told this tanned summer boy, subject of Atsumu’s hopeless schoolboy crush, about his fear. A fact he decidedly implied seconds after Hinata turned away. Osamu’s getting himself into a world of trouble as soon as Atsumu storms in Onigiri Miya in the near future, guns blazing.

Not entirely feeling like a corporeal, tangible being, Atsumu still muses. So what if Shoyo wanted to test out a theory about him—he could be Shoyo’s goddamn hypothesis, a willing lab rat for his whole life. All that circles his mind is that he’s at least being thought of, amidst the dry wood shavings his ratty self would burrow into. 

Woe is he, whose schoolboy crush has definitely gotten out of hand.

Atsumu shakes in his sneakers for the nth time, grumbling as he takes a first bite out of the godforsaken churro.


	2. Chapter 2

As far as Greek tragedies go, it’s always  _ your hubris _ this,  _ your hubris _ that. 

A great number of books talk about it and its certain undoing. Sakusa Kiyoomi, ever-so-faithful melodramatic, abides by it. He lives out the Greek tragedy, being in this team.

Today’s iambic meter starts out when a sea of people gathers so much of its waves to wash him ashore. With the tide ebbing, Sakusa can barely make out the faces of his teammates disappearing into varied directions. 

In this story, Sakusa is struck with an intense need to crack his bones. Stress compels him, and what better way to release it than to sound it out through his limbs. He starts with his fingers. Eventually, he gets to his wrists. Upon hearing his bones pop back into their sockets, his gaze is caught up front by Mr. Bright Eyes, Bokuto Beam himself. 

This is where the iambic trimeter starts.

When an ‘ _ Omi-kun, do that thing with your wrists again, hey,’ _ escapes his companion’s lips rough and unfiltered, Sakusa, for a moment, thinks he’s the tragic hero in a no-win Greek noir.

As Sakusa waits for the chorus to narrate his misery, the tragic hero thinks long and hard about how his hubris should remain untouched. He eventually surmises that it is Bokuto Koutarou that should be undone as a human being.

Sakusa’s ridiculously aware that he’s always held such great pride in possessing double-jointed wrists, or, in Atsumu’s unique nomenclature: disgustingly bendy hands. Oh, Sakusa absolutely  _ revels _ in it, huffing out a ‘heh’ every once in a while to Atsumu’s grimaces on and off the court. 

His hubris will definitely be his undoing. Bokuto’s not one for bodily conceit. 

Bokuto makes fun of his hubris now. He dangles it in front of Sakusa, manifests it when he asks to see his freakishly flexible appendages. Over and over again. 

Briefly, Sakusa indulges him, pressing the back of his right hand against Bokuto’s hard chest, the subtle dip on his sternum, bending his forearm with a motion akin to opening a glass soda bottle. Before he could hear the pop and the fizzle, Bokuto retracts himself. It’s when Bokuto’s face twists into a grimace, swatting his hand off his chest in utter disgust, spitting out an  _ oh, this is so cool Omi-kun, but oh my god don’t do it on my chest,  _ that Sakusa wins this round. 

The chorus is having the time of their lives with Sakusa’s hapless chronicle. 

When Sakusa takes his right hand into the other, he feels remnants of the cotton on Bokuto’s shirt. He envies it, the way Bokuto can explicitly spit out what he has to say about things—the complete and utter expression of emotion. As Bokuto takes one step to the side, turning around and letting his back be the last thing that Sakusa trails his eyes onto, Sakusa feels a slight pang and clasps his hands close to his chest. 

Sweat builds up from under his facemask, the heat is surely unforgiving in Yokohama. Of all the people to be stuck with, it had to be the one who’s bursting at the seams with all the emotions he’s unfamiliar with. Emotions that Sakusa could only dream of letting out, of perceiving.

Instead, he does things in repetitive circles, his only impetus being the desire to come so close to these emotions he could taste them. Intangibles he could eventually conjure. 

His personal confusion runs back, one arm swinging wildly in the air as he does, and the other pinned to his back, as if to keep something hidden from sight. “Omi-kun, hey,” Bokuto pants out, the hand that thrashed about presently raking through his owl-hair with nimble fingers, eyes wandering around. Sakusa is not the least bit interested in the succeeding words. 

Sakusa begrudgingly cocks his head slightly, sees him brandishing two new mouse headbands. Two identical ones. Two sparkling black ones, adorned with countless sequins. 

He unearths the familiar disdain from deep within him: he couldn’t care less about such childish things. It’s a choice--a willing and stern one. What are emotions, even. Who needs them. Why risk wearing such juvenile accessories to dig out feelings. No.

Sakusa makes it verbally known, then. “No way I’m wearing one of those, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto’s face falls into a pout as he sets his eyes on the floor. The fact that he’s prone to sudden mood shifts doesn’t escape Sakusa; there has been a lengthy precedent of this, from what he’s heard. 

Maybe he’s really changed for the better, but this pout is nothing short of pitiful in Sakusa’s book. The chorus takes a step back.

But Sakusa is struck by it, a small gasp from under his mask marking his disbelief. When emotions barge in like this, unannounced, he’s hard-wired into ignoring it, especially for someone who doesn’t at all feel held by his own. There is great scrutiny when he picks apart at his own feelings, when he unravels an unfamiliar pang or lets a strange elation linger. It burns, truly, from the sweltering sleeves of his jacket and from the searing flow of something so unfamiliar trailing to his stomach. 

On his own, the tragic hero believes that come what may, with his weapon of choice raised and feet muddy from travel, he is sure to surpass it. 

The only way out is through, and what of it? Perhaps hubris could be reclaimed if one plays along.

(Sakusa suspends his disbelief, and his whole library of knowledge on tragedies. The chorus stops.)

“Fine. Are they sterilized?”


	3. Chapter 3

There is a string tied to Shion’s wrist. Attached to it, a floating red balloon with what seems to be cat ears.

He flings his arm around, as if the string’s bound to cut itself through the air. Thomas, incandescent, lightheartedly giggles at the sight.

“It’s not going to cut itself that way, Shion. Give it up.” In heavy, punctuated Japanese, Thomas tries. Shion seems to get it; he replies with a quick grumble.

What seems to be an unlikely (a far too likely, actually) mishap threw them into the side street, a gustatory haven for weary theme park-goers seeking rest, for light but mighty expensive meals. 

Thomas marvels at the way Shion would bring his wrist up and shake the balloon, a levitating yo-yo in his midst. The way it brings itself down taut when Shion pulls down, and how it bounces upwards as he waves his arm around, swatting something invisible, cutting through the hot, thick air. 

There were never enough words for Thomas to say that would get Shion to notice him, even in their locker rooms. The taste of English on his tongue a little bitter on days when he struggles to gesture to Shion.

Shion always had a grin plastered on his face especially for Thomas, though. A courteous display of courage—a ‘ _you can’t understand me, but I would like to be understood_ . _I would love nothing more than a conversation with you.’_ A silent consternation on his part surfaces when he metaphorically reaches a hand out to something ways beyond him.

But that’s just it, his grin is nothing more than a quiet reaching out, an acknowledgment of their failure to converse, of letting the grand scheme of things fall in the deeper well of his longing. A politeness reserved for him alone, to him whose words lie scattered on the floor. 

“ _Thomas, untie me,”_ Thomas turns red at the English coming off a little strong, a fever dream in its own right. _Untie me._ He steels himself and chalks it up to an innocent grammatical mistake. The gumshoe of his sneakers unbearably drive into the ground that pushes back. Sees nothing around him but Shion peering at him at an arm’s length, wide eyes commanding in themselves. Tunnel vision kicks in.

_Untie me._

If it was possible at all for Thomas to lunge himself towards Shion at this moment, he would have. To have his way with the team’s libero, dissecting every bit of him and how it all goes back to a single uttered _konnichiwa_ from him. How tortured silence ends and a learning curve begins. How heated the locker room was, air thick with lingering, misspoken wanting. 

A few days prior, Shion, with a leg slung over Thomas’ thighs, sticky from sweat, littered his mind with brief Japanese. And then in the same happens in restaurants. And then, briefly, in other similar small moments. In a mix of Japanese and English. 

_Konnichiwa. Sayonara. Arigatou. Itadakimasu,_ he says, for when you say praise for the food, _gochisou sama deshita_ when you’ve had your fill.

 _Okaeri._ An announcement of certain presence, of returning. _Tadaima._ The acknowledgment of a concession made, an unraveling in the presence of.

 _Tadaima,_ for when he learns how it feels exactly to settle into the quiet, stable arms, though considerably smaller than his. In the future, maybe. 

When Shion waves his arm more spiritedly than usual, things lost in translation find their way back to the present. Appealing to his humanity, then. Thomas obliges and takes the string into his fingers gingerly, a simple unravelling that could only be done by two hands. Taking Shion’s hand in his, a balloon in the other, as they wade into the sea of faces.


	4. Chapter 4

Meian Shugo is tired. Tired is a severe understatement—he’s not _just_ tuckered out, he’s bound to black out from lack of oxygen—every moment with the whole of the Black Jackals, no matter how brief, leaves him holding his breath in unwilling anticipation of forthcoming antics. Bokuto alone can steal a good number of brain cells left floating in his head.

It’s for that reason that when he winds up alone in a theme park, parted from the unhinged bunch, he is filled with so much vigor and jubilant energy. For a second there, he could feel shoujo sparkles surrounding him.

So he sits on the nearest bench, contemplating all the moments the MSBY Boys have gotten him into all sorts of mishaps, into all kinds of hair-pulling frustrations.

A child passes by and remarks to his mother about how grim the man looks, seated on the bench, a stark contrast to vivid colors surrounding him. Almost as if an aura of blackness visibly dissipates from his shoulders, a cloud of smoke forming in its wake.

Sakusa, one of the first ones to try out for the team, never missing a beat. Always so tightly-wound, one Sakusa Kiyoomi. Always standing at attention, as if on someone else’s behest. No movement is wasted with him on the court; the team is sure to count on that. Sakusa’s never been caught off-guard, he’s the ol’ reliable.

Of course, every good thing has its kink, or in this sense, a cleaning one. Nary was there a day that Sakusa didn’t insist that the team bring their own set of sanitizers, that they read a foolproof list of restaurants before even suggesting that they go to “that new Greek place on the corner of 2-chome and 5-chome.” At least, it’d get them more conscious about cleanliness and hygiene, the smelly athletes that the rest of the boys are.

And then there was Hinata, the doer of all things, also the assistant of all shenanigans that Bokuto’s bound to concoct. Once, he’d found all their jackets, jerseys and shorts strewn on open locker doors, hanging lazily on squeaky metal. All lockers forcefully pried open by Bokuto, clothes flung messily on them by tangerine himself. 

Meian rubs his temples and remembers that it hasn’t even been a week since he’d made it to the team and yet Bokuto finds entropy and keeps it close by for the team.

Bokuto, then, with muted ministrations the moment he set foot inside the court, a quiet about him that could fool anyone (and it did—he was fooled, at least). There was no doubt that he could force his line shots in, no doubt at all that he could give N’Gapeth a run for his money with intermediate plays. Eyes that bear sharpness and hands calloused from ball contact, a force to reckon with. 

Also a whirlwind force off the court—Atsumu didn’t lie. _Bokkun’s at it again, cap. Always at 120 when he’s awake._ At this point, it doesn’t make much of a difference if Atsumu’s speaking in percentages or miles per hour, Bokuto’s definitely one zany character to deal with. From curiosity unhinged (unpinning the fire extinguisher so he could see just how much more slippery the court could be when it’s covered in foam) to dead serious in a matter of mere minutes. 

Atsumu and all his pining, left open for all to see, for it to hang in the air. Him and Shion and Thomas, all three of them openly wanting their teammates but never acting upon their feelings. Meian could _swear_ that he can hear the yearning from across the court in practice matches, when Atsumu darts his eyes towards Shoyo, when the libero keeps his eyes on the middle blocker, not the goddamn ball. 

Had he been one jerk too many, he would have shut down all three at once and yelled out a begrudging “confess already, dumbasses” but, alas, he has to maintain a professional athlete attitude. 

Professional athlete attitude = bearing with all the unspoken and unfortunately very obvious hesitations on and off court.

The only functioning adult left, and unfortunately, the only one always so unavailable ever since he’d left the starting roster, is Oliver Barnes. He and Barnes get along swimmingly. He’s the only one who understands. He’s the only one with a kid rowdy enough to make a mess of his jerseys that he had to wear an old one clinging stubbornly to his biceps at an away-game. He’s the only one who _truly_ understands.

Not that being a team captain of a rowdy set of twenty-somethings would count as parenthood. But Barnes gets it. He truly does.

Which is why he tries to escape them every chance he gets. Including this instance.

Meian’s mind is filled to the brim with conversations that he and Barnes could have about his kid, about parenting styles, and all about putting all of these rowdy idiots in pens. How he wishes.

But instead, he’s stuck with the wild boys from Sendai to Tokyo and back.


	5. Chapter 5

“Cap!” Hinata screeches with Atsumu trailing not too far behind him. Sakusa being dragged by his forearm by none other than Bokuto. Shion and Inunaki, arms linked, both taking the tiniest steps known to man to savor the small moments of being by themselves. How hopelessly in love.

This is how they reunite: all of them in one fell swoop. Their reunion feels like a burst dam—all at once overwhelming. Meian lets the familiar chaos engulf him. 

“So you all found me, huh,” Meian sighs out, reluctant to meet all of them head-on. “So, what have you all been up to?”

“MEIAN-SAN, ATSUMU’S SCARED OF ROLLER COASTERS!” Hinata proudly proclaims, with Atsumu visibly cringing at the mere mention of roller coasters. “I dragged him to the Titanium Dragon 3000!”

Meian cocks his head to the side and stifles a chuckle, eyeing the unusually bashful Atsumu right behind Hinata. “Oh, and how did _that_ go, Atsumu?”

“Splendidly.” Atsumu lies through his teeth, huffing out a short breath before shuddering. 

Meian’s gaze shifts to the two English-speaking in-team Actual Lovebirds, arms still linked so close together. “And you two?” Meian rolls his eyes and sighs before completing his sentence in straight Japanese. “Confessed yet?”

This time, it’s Shion who sputters out quick Japanese, all while covering his face. “Cap—cap, what’re you saying!” Thomas simply grins and hovers near Shion’s ear, quietly asking for an explanation-translation, positively jubilant over Shion’s flustered reaction. Meian shrugs. They’re alright.

“Aren’t you going to ask us, cap?” Bokuto cuts through Shion’s embarrassment and shines, much to everyone’s chagrin. Sakusa, beside him, scratches his head with a single index finger. 

“Fine,” Meian’s sighs get louder with each new member’s report. “Explain,” Meian furrows his eyebrows and doesn’t falter in trailing his eyes at Bokuto and Sakusa from head-to-toe, making sure to pointedly hold his stare at the sparkly ear-addition on their heads. “Those.”

“Thought you wouldn’t ask!” Bokuto huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. The sequins sewn in their mouse ears glint in the afternoon sun. “Got Omi-kun to matchy with me! You like, cap?” There is a hint of mischief in Bokuto’s grin that Meian just can’t shake off. Seeing Sakusa squirm uncomfortably beside him is a point duly made, but a point he’d rather not explore. Instead, Meian settles with a “sure, Bokuto.”

“Well,” Meian shrugs the rest of his chagrin off his shoulders and plants his feet on the ground, hopping off the bench. “Time to go home? Or is there another parade?”

“Just the fireworks, cap,” Sakusa replies, hands deep in his windbreaker’s pockets. And suddenly, Meian can feel all pleading eyes on him, _even_ Sakusa’s. 

“Fine. We can stay for the fireworks.”


End file.
